


Wrapped Up In You

by eichart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5 + 1, 5 Times, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichart/pseuds/eichart
Summary: Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times... After three times Sam is pretty sure it just becomes a normality. (Aka the 5 + 1 clothes sharing fic nobody asked for, but everyone needed).





	Wrapped Up In You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!! After like, two months of struggle this fic is finally done!! Hope you enjoy.

 

Sam is awoken by his phone buzzing like some irate fly on the night stand. He’s tempted to ignore it, better to succumb to the heavy feeling in his eyelids and not prod leaden limbs into stubborn movement. But his phone buzzes again, and he groans his displeasure, fingers snatching the device from the table. Hazel eyes squint against the harshness of a too-bright backlit screen, Jack’s messages burning into his retinas as they draw into focus.

 _u still napping_  
dinner  
10 min  
SAMSON

He groans. Even only half awake, Sam knows the importance of these things and manages to maneuver himself into a sitting position, feet skimming the floor, phone falling onto the mess of the bedspread as he frees his hand in favor to run it through sleep tousled hair. There’s an itching feeling at the back of his throat, and he doesn’t think that bodes well – especially when they’re in the middle of a roadie. Maybe it’s just the hotel heater sucking all the humidity from the air, anything but a premonition of less than pristine health.

 _don’t be late reinoooo,_ comes in a few seconds later, buzzing his phone awake again. Sam rolls his eyes. As if.

Besides Jack will be there and Sam’s beginning to find that he doesn’t like the sort of silence that settles around Jack’s absence.

The sun’s already sunk low enough to sink their room into the muted depth of twilight. Sam doesn’t think the curtains half-pulled shut are exactly doing any favors for illuminating light either. Still, he doesn’t reach for the switch on the bedside lamp. There’s something he likes about the soft filtering light that blurs out boundaries and leaves things uncertain. A bit ironic maybe, considering he seems to like everything else concrete and certain in his life.

 _8 min._ Jack helpfully sends when Sam’s finally awake enough to depart from the comfy confines of his mattress.

 _keep your briefs on im coming._ he sends back before setting off in search of pants and a more suitable top than the wrinkled t-shirt he’s currently sporting.

 _if id known that i would’ve left them off._ reads the text notification on the screen when Sam’s looking slightly more presentable a few minutes later, hair damp from a comb run under the bathroom faucet. That just brings a snort of laughter as he unplugged his phone from its charger and checks his appearance in the mirror one last time.

He grabs two room keys because he doesn’t trust that Jack didn’t leave without grabbing one.

Team dinners really aren’t bad. It’s nice to hang with the guys who have quickly become like a second family to him. And perhaps this is what Sam would miss the _most_ if he got sent back down again, the easy atmosphere, the way that everything seems to click even if he’s still trying to find his solid footing here. Jack doesn’t seem to have that problem. He makes himself heard, carves himself a niche wherever he goes. Sam’s not jealous, not really – he’s not jealous of Jack, even if the entirety of the media has fixated on the centerman that’s already been dubbed as Buffalo’s saving grace. There’s still something _here_ that Sam wants to be wrapped up in it, and maybe Jack is part of that too.

The room’s hotter than anticipated, he tugs off his suit coat and leaves it on his chair. “Glad you finally decided to join us.” It’s a familiar voice that draws him from his pity contemplation. Think of the devil. Speak of the devil. Jack is almost too bright to look at when he turns, which doesn’t really make sense at all, but his voice is loud in his ear right now and somehow the itching feeling has turned into a headache. So yeah, now _loud_ translates to _bright._

Jack’s smiling at him, loose and easy, and Sam wonders if one of the veterans slipped him a beer or something. It’s turns a little quizzical as he watches, then morphs again into some semblance of a smirk. “Like my name so much you had to wear it, huh?”

“I -- What?” He mumbles finally as Jack slings an arm around his shoulders. “Wait no, don’t do that. I’m getting sick.”

He feels Jack’s incredulous look more than sees it, because seeing it would require him to turn his head and bring faces far too close. Which isn’t good, because you know, he’s _sick_. “Seriously, man? We’re sleeping in the same hotel room for the next five days.” He has to admit that Jack makes a good point there, but that’s quickly lost in the wake of Jack’s continued _unflappable_ logic. “Besides, if you were really concerned about that, you wouldn’t be wearing my shirt right now.”

“What—“ Sam blinks, confused and then. Oh _no._ Suddenly, the looser way the shirt hangs off his shoulders makes a lot more sense. Maybe not turning on the light maybe hadn’t been the best course of action. The stiffness of the letters printed on the shirt’s back feel heavy against his skin, maybe burning as he knows they unmistakably spell out ‘Eichel’ not ‘Reinhart.’ (Though he hasn’t called Jack ‘Eichel’ for a while now ---stopped thinking of him in terms of his last name ages ago). He tries very hard to not like the heat rise to stain his face. He’s probably only part successful. “I’ll –I’ll wash it.” He says finally, wondering if it would be too soon to retreat to their room.

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. Looks good on you.” He’s still too tongue-tied to complain about the nickname, when Jack winks at him. Honest to god _winks_ at him before ambling off to go bother Risto and Caber. Sam’s left to stare after him, drowning in confusion, because _what the hell what that supposed to mean?_ And if his stomach clenches at that it’s because he’s _sick_ , maybe with the fucking flu and thinks maybe he’s going to throw up, and not because of anything _else._

**…**

It’s no secret that the team’s close, and it really shouldn’t be any other way. After all, it’s been ingrained in all of them that on ice relationships start off the ice. So they eat dinner together; they lounge in bars with music blaring; they play pranks on each other like any other team, some archaic bonding ritual no one is remotely safe from. Jack would be lying if he said he’d never had a hand in one to date though he’d never actually cop up to anything. Sure, maybe he’s been on the receiving end more often than the giving, but he’s only just a rookie so he’s not exactly surprised.

He takes it all in stride, with mock indignance, a smile and tough skin. And at least he has Sam to weather the storm with him. Or maybe take the full brunt of it all –who knows. It’s not his fault Sam’s so damn _easy_ to get sometimes with the obliviousness and all.

But this –the oldest prank in the book, to steal someone’s clothes while they’re in the shower– is a bit low given the situation. Jack admits that even if he wastes about three of the ten minutes before the bus leaves laughing. He can’t help it really, Sam just looks extremely comical with shower-wet hair dripping into his face and effectively ruining whatever glower good ol’ Canadian boy is trying here.

And like, he’s not _looking_ really, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but he has _eyes_. So yeah, maybe he’s looking a _little_.

“I had nothing to do with this one, I swear.” He gets out finally.

Sam looks skeptical; Jack doesn’t blame him for that. The laughing probably didn’t exactly help. But really, Jack’s smarter than pulling something this catastrophic ten minutes before they’re supposed to be on the team bus.

( He’s not saying his money is on Enzo, but his money is on Enzo ).

“Just –you better find something to wear.” He says rather obviously, and gets a glower in return.

Sam mumbles something and clutches almost possessively on the strap of his duffle bag as Jack looks on blankly. “What?”

“Can. I. Borrow. Something.”

“Oh _yeah_ –why didn’t you just _say_.” He laughs as Sam’s glower darkens as much as it can, but he’s already digging around in his bag for something suitable to wear that hasn’t been moldering in his bag for weeks.

The only shirt he comes up with is some well-worn, navy NTDP thing with the USA logo on it. _Quite_ appallingly American. Well. It’s not like Sam has much of a choice. He thrusts the slightly crumpled thing towards Sam who’s morosely poking through his bag as if his missing clothes will appear.

Unsurprisingly, Sam is less than enthusiastic and fixes Jack with a look. “Is that really all you have?”

“ _Seriously?_ You’re wearing nothing but a towel and you’re being picky about the shirt I give you?”

“It’s got that – _thing_ on it.”

Brows raise, amused and indignant all at once. ( And maybe, if anyone bothered to question him hard enough, a little _fondly_ too ). “If by that _thing_ , you mean an _American flag_ , then _tough luck._ I don’t have anything else.”

“You’re _wearing_ one aren’t you?”

Indignance is a hard look to wear when you’re in nothing but a towel, Sam.

And really, this whole situation is ridiculous –something Jack hears about in clearly exaggerated stories told in drunken slurs. Though he’s going to have to reevaluate every story he’s heard if _this_ is happening to him in real life. “If you’re that stuck up about the America thing just wear your fucking sweatshirt or something.”

“ _What?_ You know the bus is gunna be a million degrees, and what part of _all my clothes are gone_ did you not hear?”

Jack finally gives in at that, mostly because they’re definitely going to be late for the bus at this point and he rather get this settled before Gio or whoever tromps back to see what they’re up to. And also, maybe because arguing with a not-clothed Sam Reinhart wasn’t on his agenda today and he’s nowhere near mentally prepared for it.

“Fine. _Fine.”_ He drops his bag to the floor, tugs his shirt over his head and throws it into Sam’s face.

Ugh. _Canadians_.

Jack flushes too easily and he can feel the heat itching over his cheeks for _no reason at all_. Which is fucking stupid considering he’s seen the team and Sam in a lot less –comes with the territory and all. He looks away, pushes down whatever _this_ is that’s plaguing him, and tries his best to hide it as he ducks to pluck a pair of spare sweatpants from his bag as well.

“I’ll wait outside.”

They’re five minutes late for the bus and judging from the way they look at Sam in Jack’s old BU shirt, the team’s already hurtling towards their own, _wrong_ conclusions. And like, Jack couldn’t care less about what they think of him; he’s learned young that caring about other’s people’s perceptions is a shitty waste of time that makes you feel like crap inside. But Sam is caught in this too and somehow, that makes bile rise in his throat, jaw tighten and a defensive glint spark in his eyes. Jack thinks his glare probably doesn’t help their case any, but he can’t really help it.

Sam slumps into a window seat, arms crossed, looking sullen, a faint glow of pink splashed across his face. Jack’s fascinated by it, but forces himself to look away, dropping into the seat next to him. Enzo winks at him from across the aisle. “Nice work, Eichs.”

The insinuation stings a little, and the fact that it does bothers Jack –he prides himself in having pretty thick skin after all. He glares back at Enzo. “Shut up.” He grumbles, “Sam didn’t have any clothes. Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Enzo doesn’t grace that with a response, and Jack huffs once in frustration again before popping his Beats over his ears and closing his eyes.

Sam’s knee knocks gently against his a few moments later. Jack cracks eyelids open a fraction, gaze sliding to Sam’s profile against city lights through a rain-splattered window.

“Thanks.” says Sam quietly, and Jack doesn’t know what exactly it’s for.

It doesn’t matter really.

“Yeah sure. Anytime, man.”

…

Sam still isn’t quite sure why they always have parties at Ryan’s house; maybe it’s because he’s got the nicest backyard and no kids or anything like Gio or Matty, or maybe it’s because Ryan’s new to the team too ( though not the NHL ) and offering his house as basecamp for get togethers is part of his way of living up to his A. Whatever the reason, Sam dutifully goes when he gets his invite –verbal or text-- though he’s still new enough, still so green that when he does show up he rather stick to the fringes and watch.

He watches Jack a lot –Jack who has no trouble carving a place for himself here; Jack who likes to push back and make himself fill space and turn heads.

He watches Jack now, comfortable here with teammates of barely two months. Comfortable in his position, in his skin. He’s not jealous, really –just, _wistful_ perhaps.

The temperature’s been dropping by the hour, and Sam’s beginning to realize the t-shirt he’s wearing isn’t nearly enough. He didn’t bring a sweatshirt because he may be from Vancouver but he’s still Canadian, goddammit. Besides, it certainly hadn’t been this cold when he’d left. So he grits his teeth, crosses his arms and tells himself to fucking tough through it, goddammit.

Something soft drops into his lap not minutes later and Jack’s smirking down at him like he’s read his mind. “Suck up the Canadian pride, Reino. Anyone can see you’re freezing your ass off.”

Okay, maybe at this point he looks so miserable that it only takes a person with eyes to see he’s _cold._ He tries to glare, he really does, and mostly fails if the widening of Jack’s smile is any means of judgement. That just brings on a stubborn set of his jaw even as goosebumps break out on his bare, crossed arms. Jack walks away with a dramatic eye roll. The sweatshirt remains stubbornly in his lap.

It’s after two minutes and another gust of frigid air off the lake full of the promise of winter that Sam finally gives in and pulls the fabric over his head. He immediately regrets not putting it on sooner. There’s still heat caught between its threads –Jack must’ve been wearing it not a few minutes prior. The thought makes something warm curl in his stomach and it’s got absolutely nothing to do with the fabric easing the chill on his skin.

“Lookin’ good, Reino.” says Marcus behind him a few minutes later, bottle of beer dwarfed in his hand. Sam twists, looks confused, looks down and sees the familiar Sabres logo looking back at him.

“ ---thanks?” He says, and his teammate laughs, one hand clapping Sam high on the back where his number would be with a thoughtful looking smirk. It only hits a few minutes later, when he’s staring off at Jack annoying Matt ---oh god his number.

Not for the first time he curses their personalized swag that gets handed out every season.

And it’s not like he’s the first one to ever wear a teammate’s clothes. He’s pretty sure he saw Risto stumble in minutes before practice in Caber’s NTDP hoodie only yesterday, and Ryan hands around his oversized-hoodie to anyone who looks like they some comfort, so Sam’s not sure why the memory of the implication in Marcus’ voice makes his cheeks warm and pokes at something deep in his chest.

Maybe it’s because this is like, the third time they’ve caught him in Jack’s swag. And third times –well, three times is when it really starts getting _weird_ , right?

At this point, he should probably just take the damn thing off but it’s warm and feels nice wrapped around his body and he’s not really into being freezing again. So he pointedly ignores Marcus’ looks and Caber’s stare and Oakie’s knowing smile, pulls up the hood of Jack’s sweatshirt, nurses his beer, and thanks whatever god that’s out there for it being too dark to see the heat evident in his face.

“How’re you doing?” Jack asks when he wanders over a few minutes later.

He feels the smile spreading across his face before he has any coherent thought, a reflex more than anything. So is the way he shifts on some low retaining wall to make room for Jack. “Good.” _Better now that you’re here,_ supplies his mind helpfully.

Enzo quirks a brow in his direction from across the yard as if he can hear the thought and Sam looks away to Jack enthusiastically recapping some ludicrous story he heard only minutes ago.

Okay so maybe they have a point.

**…**

The older players are always happy when roadies are over, the younger ones too even without family in Buffalo to go home to. It’s a lot for anyone to be with the team almost 24/7 even if they’ve become second family so easily and quickly – space is something not afforded to when you’re constantly on the same bus, on the same plane, in the same hotel as all the others. So the wheels touch down and Gio goes home to his wife and kids, Jack goes home with Matt, and Sam goes home alone.

There comes a time post a series of brutal roadies that Jack’s suddenly hit with the realization that despite the horrid nature of hotel rooms, he’d almost prefer that to hopping in the passenger’s seat of Matt’s car and returning to a home that isn’t home. It’s an odd thought, and Sam waves goodbye as he climbs into his own car alone and Jack thinks, _Oh shit._

The season progresses and Jack finds himself at Sam’s place more often than not.

It starts slow: bringing Sam along when he and Matt get brunch, lingering after he showers and making a show of organizing his bag so he walks Sam out to his car (and then stupidly wondering how he’s supposed to get back to Matt’s because Matt’s a freak about saving gas and carpooling ).

“You know, I can drive you home.” Sam says the third time Jack’s resigned himself to paying for a taxi to Matt’s because thinking straight isn’t working out so well. He sounds sincere, hazel eyes wide and he adds almost too quickly, “Or you could come over ---if you want, I mean.” Jack’s not so dense that he doesn’t hear the slight hint of nervousness that taints Sam’s voice, and his hand goes to shift his duffle on this shoulder. “We could, you know, get take-out.”

“Yeah.” Jack says quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Yeah --- that’d be good.” A pause, a beat too long, and a slash of a smile curving lips. “Thanks man.”

“Sure,” says Sam. There’s a smile brightening his own face, and Jack wonders how anyone could be that bright all the time. “Anytime.”

After that it just keeps going, ‘anytime’ maybe taken a bit too literally though Sam never once complains. He passes it off as just cultivating that off-ice chemistry, because that’s where on-ice chemistry starts. Maybe it’s a little selfish, to be seeking friendship just so they can play better, but Jack’s always been Jack and like this. But somewhere along the timeline it stops being like that, or maybe it never truly was. Because Sam makes him feel comfortable, has a smile he trusts and doesn’t completely kick his ass at Mario Cart. But there comes a point when he’s hogging most of the space on Sam’s couch and laughing his ass off that he realizes that they’ve somehow crossed that line of being obligatorily close to truly being _friends_. Course that line probably was crossed why back when he started walking Sam to his damn car.

“I better go, Matt’ll be wondering where I am---“ Jack trails off after his third consecutive loss. He wants to ask if he can stay over, honestly, and the fact that the words simply won’t come baffles him. Blunt, honest, say what you feel – Jack lives a very straightforward life and yet still, the sentence trails off.

“Uh --- you could --- you know. Stay over.” Sam says instead, and it’s like that first day he offered Jack a ride home; some tentative push past another barrier that maybe gives a little too easily in the wake of Sam’s smile.

“That’d be ---yeah, that’d be good.” A yawn cracks his jaw, and yeah, Jack’s grateful for the offer, honestly. He doesn’t feel like making small talk with some taxi driver about the state of their team or whatever.

He sends off a text to Matt so he doesn’t worry and watches Sam dump blankets on his couch because Sam lives in some one-bedroom place.

“Thanks man.” Jack says.

“Anytime.”

It doesn’t take long for Jack to realize that Sam isn’t nearly as quiet and withdrawn as the media likes to paint him as. Sure he may not be the most vocal when there’s more than two pairs of eyes on him, but there’s an eerie parallelism when they’re alone after curfew. Jack finds it strangely satisfying to maybe be the only one on the team who gets to see Sam quite like this.

Sam’s sweet but still throws some seriously savage chirps too when the occasion arises. Maybe not as genius as his, of course, but still, Jack’s impressed. Maybe it comes from being the youngest of three brothers. The only thing better is the pure shock on everyone’s face when Sam finally tosses one out into the dressing room.

It’s after a particularly taxing stretch of games ended in constant fan disapproval and frustrated dejection heavy in the locker room that Jack shows up at Sam’s door with ice cream and take out from the Chinese place they both like. He doesn’t know if he’s more here for Sam or himself. He tells himself it’s for Sam and his soft heart, but reality lingers in the back of his mind (how a drink would feel so damn good right now and he’s not sure he would stop before he did something _stupid_ ). And lying on his bed back at Matt’s, staring at the ceiling and going crazy, he realized that Sam had somehow become synonymous with safe. He aches for it sometimes, the way that when he’s wrapped up in the negative monotony of his thoughts the first thing he grasps onto to pull himself out is his family and Sam’s smile caught mid-laugh.

In the end it doesn’t matter because all that _matters_ is he ends up with the familiar feel of Sam’s door beneath his knuckles as he knocks.

It takes a minute for Sam finally answer, barefoot, briefs clinging to legs and a Sabres’ sweatshirt wrapped around his frame. “Jack.” It’s a quiet word, quiet in the way things are after the anger of losing and losing and losing finally drains off.

“Hey.” Food offerings are raised slightly.

He doesn’t say anything else, merely steps aside and lets Jack in. Jack doesn’t smile, stepping over the threshold in a silence that isn’t the stony, resentive kind, but the resigned stillness of quietly desired company; he thinks Sam understands that too.

There’s a pause at the door, Jack kicking his shoes off into the shadowed corners of the hallway. It’s dark, and he more feels than sees Sam lingering behind him, shutting the door to seal off the cold again. The plastic take-out bag crinkles as he squeezes past in the direction of the kitchen, a hand pressing against the taunt curve of Sam’s shoulder, lingering a tad longer than it should.

Sam’s kitchen is clean --- rarely used besides to make coffee and microwave things, honestly--- and it’s warm, golden light that puts him at peace even his bedroom at the Moulson’s hasn’t managed to do. it seems the easiest thing in the world to put the take out on the counter, and stash the ice cream in the freezer.

It’s only when Sam’s grabbing the not completely legal beer from his fridge that Jack finds any interest in the sweatshirt; more notably the 15 on the arm and the coffee stain at the hem. He opens his mouth, question already half formed on his tongue before he lapses into silence again.

There’s an equilibrium here, and Jack doesn’t want to upset it –he’s too good at that, shaking normality and overturning silence; not good at quiet things like how Sam’s apartment is warm and still, and somehow the image of Sam with a 15 and his name settles in perfectly.

“Thank you–” Sam says suddenly, plates clattering gently against the counter. “ –for –for coming.” The silence that follows is stilted, like words are meant to fill the space, but aren’t.

“Yeah—“ says Jack a beat too late. “No problem.”

He starts staring again at some point without even realizing it, and eventually Sam starts to notice as well, brows drawing into a quizzical line. “What?”

“Uh—“ explains Jack unhelpfully.

Gaze narrows at him, before happening to look down and _oh_ , that’s interesting. He watches the flush creep up Sam’s neck and across his cheeks, mind strangely _blank_ as Sam works on some mumbled explanation. It’s not until he’s moving to pull the sweatshirt back over his head that Jack’s spurred into motion again.

“Just keep it on.” He says nonchalantly as he can, and then hides his face by carrying his takeout containers to the trashcan.

Sam’s still in the sweatshirt when he comes back though, and he tries not to look too pleased. And it’s maybe this that overshadows the nerves he can’t identify in his stomach.

“Hey, you wanna live together next year?” Jacks asks later while they’re playing NHL15.

Sam gives him a sidelong glance, the 15 almost blazing on the arm of the sweatshirt. “You’d like that?” comes the hesitant question, voice a tad too guarded for Jack’s liking.

“Yeah.” He says. And he’s been rejected too many times to count, he’s fine. He’ll get over it. And yet— Jack’s afraid of _this_ rejection, he realizes, and the realization clenches at something.

“Yeah. Okay, let’s do it then.” Jack doesn’t need to look to see the smile on Sam’s face, he can hear it crystal clear in his words.

He turns to look anyway.

It’s a feeling of scoring the game-winning goal that sweeps Jack up as he grins in response, staring at the profile of Sam’s face. Something settles with the confirmation of next season’s living arrangements, something like the way he feels seeing Sam in 15 and ‘Eichel.’ Something like excitement and pleasure and something _else_ that seems to boil in his veins when he’s around Sam.

Sam scores against Jack not thirty seconds later, a foot knocking against his ankle in a playful _take that_ motion, but for once that doesn’t wipe the smile from Jack’s face.

**…**

Sam does Jack’s laundry.

Sometimes.

To be fair Jack does Sam’s laundry too.

Sometimes.

It’s not that he’d been lying back in August when he told the media he wasn’t gunna, because he really truly was not planning on it. It’s just, their shit ends up so massed together that it’s easier to throw into the washer all at once than to actually spend time separating his clothes from Jack’s. It also means he has to spend less time actually touching the stuff.

He doesn’t cook Jack dinner though, because he can barely cook himself something edible. Most nights they end up eating take out; there’s a two drawers in thine kitchen dedicated to what must be every place that delivers in Buffalo, and they’ve certainly already run the gambit of every Chinese place in the area.

But when Sam does laundry, he ends up doing Jack’s laundry too, and that means not everything quite makes it back into the right drawers, if the clothes ever make it fully back into drawers at all. Because Sam tries his best to be neat, and Jack respectfully keeps the worst of his mess confined to his room, but they’re guys just turned twenty and what can you _honestly_ expect.

There are the obvious things, of course: Jack’s BU shirts and all Sam’s swag from Kootenay and Amerks, Team Canada and Team USA sweatshirts and warm up jackets that are impossible to tangle up.

But there are also the less obvious things: black shirts and standard issue Sabres merchandise that can be almost be interchanged perfectly save for a name and a number. There are times mixups are honest mistakes, symptoms of a still half-slumbering mind and too dark lighting.

Other times they’re not.

It’s a habit that he tried to grow out of when they moved in together --- even though in the end it seemed Jack was at his place more often than not. But still, it’s less somehow easier and harder to get away with being swaddled in Jack’s clothes, through Netflix movies, and solitary nights, and falling asleep with some hoodie that isn’t his pulled up over his head when he’s living with the owner himself.

He doesn’t know if Jack was suspicious at all the last time he came over to Sam in a hoodie that clearly was Jack’s, doesn’t even know what half-assed excuse he gave. Because what was he supposed to say? That there’s something about Jack that makes him feel alive, that he’d plucked that particular piece of clothing purposefully when faced with the empty, empty expanse of his apartment? He’s just getting around to admitting to himself that Jack’s presence is something to be desired ( _craved,_ even). He’s still trying to figure whatever _this_ is out and until that –well Jack doesn’t need to know.

But Jack’s out somewhere and his return tonight isn’t exactly something Sam foresees, he digs around the clothing around the house and slips into some soft-worn Boston hoodie that no one could ever, ever mistake for his own.

So yeah, when he hears the door creak open, he panics.

A Sabres’ sweatshirt is one thing, something that might be able to be shrugged off as an accident even if flushed cheeks may have claimed a different truth. But here, _now_ , there’s no pretending this is a little laundry mix-up, no hiding the red fabric or the bold white lettering that does _not_ spell out Canada.

And their heating is still absolute shit because they’re guys with way too much money and can’t be bothered to call someone to actually look at it. And _that_ means that there’s no way he can just take the thing off because maybe he’s not wearing a shirt on under it and--- he’s overthinking this.

He pulls it off over his head, balling it between hands so that the words are nothing but an undecipherable mass of white print just as Jack emerges from the hallway, shopping bags in hand and hat squashed awkwardly over unruly hair.

“Hey, ma---“ Sam freezes, probably looking extremely guilty considering the way Jack’s gaze snaps to him, voice curling with incredulous edges. “What are you _doing_?”

“ _Nothing_. Uh --just, you know—“ Sam casts around for a reasonable response that doesn’t beg too much questioning. “I’ll – I’ll be right back. Bathroom.” He blurts instead and flees from the living room with heart pounding too fast.

Nailed it.

**…**

Sam’s still a little groggy when he makes it to the kitchen, silently bumping around Jack to fix himself a cup of coffee and wake up in his own time. Perhaps that’s why he can’t quite put his finger on the thing that feels _off_ until he’s been staring at it for almost a full minute.

_Reinhart. 23._

It’s so fucking obvious on the expanse of Jack’s back that Sam is starting to wonder if he’s still asleep. Because Jack, even in the thick of things, never wanted to be anyone else, not even Connor McDavid. He’s always wanted to be _Jack Eichel_. Maybe a better version of Jack Eichel ( and don’t they all want to be better versions of themselves in the end? ), but still undeniably Jack. It’s the kind of confidence Sam wishes he had when the doubts are creep, creep, creeping in and make it hard to sleep at night. Jack Eichel has always been his own person, following his own rules, not so much caught in the turn of the Earth as the very cause of it. Sam didn’t even think Jack had it in him to even consider having a different name settling across his shoulders _other_ than _Eichel_.

And so he continues to stare as Jack fries egg whites for breakfast because Sam is god awful at that sort of thing.

“That says Reinhart on it.” Sam blurts finally, because he can’t take it anymore; is terribly confused and pleased at the same time.

“Wow. Morning to you too, Sammy. Real perceptive one, aren’t you?”

He gets a glare for that –for the Sammy and the sarcasm. Jack laughs because he’s an asshole.

“Why’re you wearing my sweatshirt, asshole?”

Jack tosses a plate of eggs in front of Sam, they’re brunt and vaguely unappetizing and Caber would probably be horrified to see the state of the breakfast food, but it’s still probably better than Sam would be able to do, which maybe says more about Sam’s incompetence with cooking than Jack’s.

“You steal mine all the time.” Is the statement that gets thrown back at him, and Sam freezes.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” He says, and words have never tasted so much like a lie before.

“It doesn’t?” Jack says, and Sam can hear the knowing tone in his voice, can see his brow cocked in amused incredulousness. He’s well aware when he’s lost a conversation, thank you very much, but denial is an easy tune to stick to –especially when it involves touchy subjects. Which apparently this is.

“No.”

The silence more than speaks for itself, laden with _‘really’_ and punctuated by the _yeah right_ painted straight across Jack’s face. Sam stares at his eggs, pushes them around his plate as he flushes.

“You know—“ begins Jack, and Sam can tell just from the tone of his voice that he is not going to like where this is going at all. “ –you’re wearing my sweatshirt right now?”

And well, isn’t that just great. There’s no way he has anything less than flaming embarrassment painted boldly across his cheeks. “It –it makes me feel comfortable.” He finally blurts and promptly closes his mouth. Suddenly his plate of burnt eggs is much more interesting. The silence that follows is the stifling kind.

And then the tension shatters as Jack laughs and it’s not the mocking kind, but Sam still buries his face in his palms, feels the heat coming off his skin in waves.

“Sam—“

 _Nope_. Thinks Sam. There’s shuffling. He pointedly ignores it. He is _not_ doing this and he is for sure _not_ looking Jack in the eyes right now.

 _No_. Because he gets it now and maybe he always _knew_ but never wanted to understand.

 _No_. Because it’s _easy_ to want to read into Jack, into this, into whatever they are.

_No—_

“ _Sam—“_

 _No—_ There are fingers on his wrists, though, surprisingly gentle, and something _breaks_ as Sam lets Jack tug his hands away from his face. He still doesn’t look, _can’t_ look, still remains fixated on the breakfast he has no appetite for.

“You know—“ Jack says again, and it’s different this time. Quieter, not seeped in amusement. And perhaps it is this that finally tugs Sam’s gaze up, eyes turning to train on Jack.

Sam’s only seen Jack like this a few times way back when they were green, too green rookies, and Jack would lay a play out before veterans of this game. It’s this he’s faced with now, this confident façade plagued by some uncertainty running fast beneath.

Jack’s hands are still on his wrist, and his eyes are bright in the way they are after he scores a goal and they’re cellying too close. And Sam’s heart is clattering an unsteady beat against his ribs, like it does when Jack’s too close and he _wants_.

“You know—“ repeats Jack, “I– just–   _fuck it_.”

Sam blinks.

Jack leans forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you don't hate me too much for that ending. Great shoutout to Olivia for making sure I got this fic done at some point before I tackled any of my new grand ideas floating around in my head. Hope you enjoyed!! As always, you can find me [here](http://eichhart.tumblr.com), and if you liked make sure to leave kudos and/or a comment!! Thanks so much guys.


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